


On Thursdays

by mimble



Series: On Thursdays series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Busking, Children, Gen, Homeless AU, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimble/pseuds/mimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Thursdays, if you were to look down Baker Street you would see a young boy, no older than ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Thursdays

On Thursdays, if you were to look down Baker Street you would see a young boy, no older than ten, playing an old, three stringed violin. The broken string would be coiled around the scroll of the instrument carefully and the bow would have a slight bend in the middle as if it had been warped with the weather. The body of the violin would be scratched and peeling, it would look sad and uncared for but the way the boy would hold it will show that it wasn’t that he wouldn’t fix it; it was that he just couldn’t _afford_ to.

Behind him would stand a taller boy holding an umbrella which he would hold over the both of them when it rained. He would stop the younger boy from time to time and make him drink something before starting to play again. In the evening, he would count up the money collected in the case, pack away the violin and take his brother, for they could only be brothers, by the hand and lead him away down the street. They would be back again on the next Thursday, and the one after that. 

This Thursday however, was not the same. 

It was raining and yet the umbrella was not being held over the both of them. Instead it was propped awkwardly over the older brother who was dozing against the metal railings that run along the houses on the edge of the pavement. They had arrived early in the morning and the younger boy had not stopped playing his battered violin since he had tucked his brother under the umbrella.

His hands were raw and chapped from the blistering cold of November rain. His fingertips were bleeding in places but he had only frowned slightly at the cuts and played on. The broken string had become unwound and bounced in time to the jaunty tune being wrung out.

At some point in the day, the older boy had reached out and grabbed at his brother’s trouser leg blearily. The music stopped playing and the younger boy looked down at him, dark wet hair falling forward into his eyes.

When he tried to pull himself up using his brother for leverage, he was quickly pushed back down against the railings and pulled against his brother who had sat down with him. The violin rested on the pavement beside them as he fought to cover the both of them with the umbrella. Once satisfied, he picked up the violin and rested in his lap. He plucked absent-mindedly at the strings with one hand and finger combed his brother’s hair with the other.

When the rain had eased up a bit, the younger boy snagged the violin case towards him with his foot and started to pack it away. His brother stirred slightly at the loss of contact but was quickly soothed by the return of the hand to his hair and the case was clipped up with one hand, money left uncounted inside.

With the case jammed between his legs and the umbrella in his and, he leaned down to pull his brother up with his free hand. When he got this far though, he realised he would not be able to carry his violin, the umbrella and hold onto his brother’s hand. So with a sigh, he put down the umbrella and tucked it under his arm before joining their hands again.

"Come on, Myc.”

And on that Thursday afternoon, if you were to look down Baker Street, you would have seen a young boy balancing an umbrella and a violin case under one arm leading an older boy with glassy eyes and a rattle in his chest away down the road.

Doctor John Watson hasn’t seen them since.


End file.
